SEMI-FICTIONAL CHRONICLE of the EVIL THAT INFECTS WASHINGTON, D.C.
To read Prologue and Character Guide, please see www.washingtonhorrorblog.com, updated 6/6//2017.
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Friday, May 27, 2011

Patriot Act-ors

Sebastian L'Arche walked slowly up to the dog and Federal Reserve Board police officer stationed on 21st Street and identified himself as the contractor who was supposed to take a look at the yellow labrador. "You're the dog whisperer?" asked the officer, and L'Arche nodded. "Go on," the officer said to his golden retriever, giving her the signal to inspect (sniff) L'Arche, but the retriever instead lay down on the sidewalk and rolled onto her back. "Huh," said the officer, as L'Arche squatted down to scratch her belly. "Alright, come this way."

A few miles to the east, Atticus Hawk was pretending to organize things in his Justice Department desk drawer as Ava Kahdo Green sat in his visitor chair examining a green espadrille shoe she had taken off her right foot and railing about the renewal of the Patriot Act. "I can't help but agree with Rand Paul and Dick Durbin on this one," she said, fussing over some raised stitching which was irritating the back of her ankle.

"Well--"

"I mean, if we have a reason to spy on somebody, why not go to a judge to get the warrant? The NSA could be spying on anybody at any time, for any reason, for no good reason. Most Americans still don't get it--they think it's somebody ELSE being spied on, somebody that deserves it." She looked up at him and smiled provocatively, sensing the rebelliousness hidden in his quiet and reserved demeanor.

"Well," said Hawk (who had changed his home and cellphone numbers half a dozen times in the past two years when he was afraid that the CIA torture investigation was going to nail him), "it's natural for any organization to want to maximize its own power." He was moving rubber bands from one side of his desk drawer to the other. "So, of course, we want to see more warrants and FBI-like procedures. CIA doesn't. NSA doesn't. Supreme Court has washed its hands of it."

"They didn't wash their hands of the Arizona mess! How the hell does a state have the power to set immigration enforcement laws?"

"Well--"

"People who look a certain way have to walk around with identity cards now! What does that sound like to you? South Africa under apartheid, that's what! Or Nazi Germany! Let's take people with green cards and force them to wear arm bands with a big 'G' symbol, for God's sake."

"They don't use green cards anymore."

"You know what I mean!" It exasperated her that he was so secretive about his work and his views and, well, anything she tried to get out of him, but the more mysterious he remained, the more obsessed she got with him. He had a just-the-facts, ma'am way of speaking with her that drove her wild. "If it's patriotic AND un-American, then whose fatherland are we hailing?"

Over at the Lincoln Memorial, Glenn Michael Beckmann was also railing against the Patriot Act, having forgotten that many years earlier he had mailed death threats to every Representative who had voted against it. "We are the Hunter-Gatherer Society. We have existed from the beginning and will exist to the end. Nobody can stop our right to hunt and gather." Holly Gonightly was two steps behind him, her clandestine video camera quietly recording everything. She handed out flyers, buttons, and bumper stickers, but she let Beckmann pocket the cash donations so that she could never be accused of violating any laws during her undercover investigation. "This unconstitutional government is spying on EVERYBODY!" he shouted at some Chinese tourists he suspected of being Viet Cong. Then he grunted and leaned down to scratch a mosquito bite on his ankle, coming within a quarter-inch of accidentally shooting himself in the foot with the gun he had strapped to his shin under his camouflage pants.

Meanwhile, FBI officials were closing in on International Development Machine. They stepped off the elevator into a nondescript hallway, verified the name on the suite door, and walked briskly in, guns drawn. The commanding officer demanded to know where the president was.

"President Obama?" she asked in a whisper, her hands up in the air.

"The president of International Development Machine!" the c.o. barked.

The receptionist pointed in a vague direction behind her, and the c.o. motioned for his officers to proceed. They repeated the question three more times until Liv Cigemeier pointed them to the boss's office. The c.o. marched in and told him he was under arrest, then recited federal statutes the president was accused of violating. "What did he do?!" demanded Momzilla to a petite female officer standing in front of Momzilla's desk.

"He purchased eggs from Afghan women," she said.

"Eggs?"

"Human eggs!" The officer glared at Momzilla. "He paid corrupt Afghani doctors to harvest eggs from unsuspecting women, then used heroin smugglers to get them out and sell them for huge profits in Europe and North America."

Momzilla turned to Liv in amazement, her palms turned up in bewilderment.

"5G consulting," whispered Liv. "Bo-oz...." Her voice trailed off, and all was silent as the president of International Development Machine took the long walk out of the office, his head held down.

Back at the Federal Reserve Board, Sebastian L'Arche was finally face-to-face with the yellow labrador, who had quite a lot to talk about.

Perched outside the Federal Reserve Building palace, a raven watched in silence.